Page 29 of Rose's Untamed Bear

I tightened my grip on her hand. “Are you ready?”

She nodded, though her pulse fluttered against my fingers.

And together, we walked down into the shadow of the stone.

The castle rose out of the hills like a crown of stone, its towers still proud against the gray sky, even strangled by ivy and time. At first glance, it was beautiful. The kind of place I might have dreamed about as a child, all turrets and high walls, a storybook fortress sleeping beneath the clouds.

But as we drew nearer, beauty cracked into sorrow.

The first cottages came into view, and my breath caught. A woman stood at her washbasin, hands plunged in water that had long since gone dry, her face tilted toward the sun that would never set for her. A man bent forever beneath the weight of a bale of hay, his shoulders frozen, his back unbroken only by stone’s mercy.

A little boy stood mid-laugh, one hand tangled in his sister’s braid, pulling while she scowled and tried to shove him away. They were trapped that way—squabble etched into eternity.

Everywhere I looked, life was halted. Chickens mid-scratch in the dirt, a dog forever leaping at a butterfly, a blacksmith with his hammer poised above the anvil. Time had locked them all in place, a village turned into statues, each one more painful than the last.

My heart splintered. I reached blindly for Derrick’s hand, clinging to it as if his warmth could banish the chill creeping into my bones.

If it hurt me this much, seeing them for the first time, what must it have done to him? How could he have carried this grief all these years—his family, his people, his home turned to stone around him? I couldn’t comprehend half of it.

When I dared to look up at him, his jaw was set hard, his eyes fixed on the castle gates. But the muscle in his cheek twitched, and I knew the weight of it was pressing on him with every step we took.

I pressed closer, our hands locked tight, silently promising that whatever waited beyond those gates, he would not face it alone.

We passed beneath the gates, whose iron teeth yawned wide, and the air grew colder. My hand clung to Derrick’s as though it were the only warmth left.

Inside, the world was stone. Not just the walls and floors, but everything. Fabrics that should have billowed with color—tapestries, banners, rugs—were carved in gray, threads caught mid-sway in a breeze that no longer blew. A curtain hung stiff as rock, folds rippling where it had once danced in the wind.Even the couches were stone, cushions flattened by the weight of bodies that would never rise again.

We moved through the silent halls, passing guards whose faces were locked in eternal solemnity. Every detail of their armor, from buckles to blade edges, was frozen into granite perfection. Their eyes were wide open, as if they still watched us.

In the throne room, it was worse.

Dozens of people stood where life had interrupted them. A noblewoman with her hand lifted mid-gesture, mouth parted as though she had just spoken. A pageboy forever bent at the knee, a tray of goblets balanced on his frozen arms. A courtier whose lips were curled mid-sneer, forever captured in arrogance. A cat arched, claws stretched, leaping after a mouse caught mid-scamper across the stone tiles—both forever suspended in the chase.

It was unbearable. I wanted to weep, to scream, but no sound dared break the heavy silence. Only the echo of our steps, soft against the frozen floor, could be heard.

We climbed the grand staircase, each step heavier than the last, until the throne came into view.

At the far end of the hall, towering above us on a dais of steps, sat a man carved into stone. His presence filled the room even in stillness. Broad shoulders, proud jaw, his hair was swept back in familiar waves of power.

He looked so much like Derrick that my knees buckled. I pressed a hand to my mouth, choking back a sob. Gods, it was his father. The king. For the first time, I saw not just Derrick, but the man he came from—the man he would be.

Tears blurred my vision, and I clung harder to Derrick’s hand for another moment, then let go. My heart rebelled at the loss of his warmth, but I knew this was his moment, not mine. Whatever waited, he had to meet it alone.

He stepped forward, shoulders straight, though I saw the tremor in his hands as he drew the red, heart-shaped crystal from his satchel. The light inside pulsed, steady and strong, as if it already knew where it belonged.

I clasped my hands together, praying, though I had no right to. Words slipped into my mind, strange syllables I had never learned, spells, whispers, as though Alarion himself murmured them to me from beyond the grave. I trembled, choking them back, afraid of what they meant, and prayed harder.

Derrick raised the crystal high, then pressed it against the stone chest of the man on the throne. His father. King Roderick.

For one heartbeat, nothing happened. The silence pressed so hard it seemed to crush the air from the hall.

Then it all broke at once.

The page boy’s goblets spilled to the ground with a crash; wine and shards scattered over the tiles. Men and women groaned, their stiff bodies trembled as stone gave way to flesh. A dog barked hoarsely, stumbling forward before yelping in shock at the sound of its own voice. The mouse squealed, the cat leapt, and they tumbled across the floor in a clumsy tangle, as if the world had simply continued mid-breath after a very long pause.

But my eyes were riveted on Derrick and his father.

The crystal flared with red light, then crumbled to dust in Derrick’s hand. On the throne, the King shuddered. A faint flushof color spread over his face, his hands twitched, his chest rose with the first real breath in years.